


Ten-Cent Adventures

by JimDandy



Series: Souvenir Shotglasses [1]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Pining, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-28
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:21:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26703643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JimDandy/pseuds/JimDandy
Summary: “Son, mind the door!” the clerk bit out, still not looking up from his newspaper.  The young man, or boy really now that Charles got a look at him, snapped his eyes up from under the oversized dark brimmed hat he wore.-------Super pre- canon one-shot of a chance meeting between Charles and Arthur as boys.May have a few more chapters
Relationships: Arthur Morgan & Charles Smith
Series: Souvenir Shotglasses [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2018951
Comments: 9
Kudos: 66
Collections: Newspaper Clippings





	Ten-Cent Adventures

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first attempt at writing in probably longer than a good percentage of the users here have been alive, suffice it to say, I am quite rusty. Also, forgive any wonky formatting, I write on my phone. All other self depricating comments will be saved for my brain alone.

Charles shielded his eyes as the morning sun reached the tops of the few buildings scattered about the trading post. Though it was only a few miles off the reservation , Charles had only been once before with both parents. They, along with the rest of the tribe, were nervous to venture out. This past winter had been somewhat rough, confined as they were to the ever shrinking reservation, and their fall crops that had somehow mysteriously caught fire before harvest. Hard decisions had been made, including going on weekly supply runs to the post to buy, barter, or trade for food. 

Charles sat atop the wagon seat, bouncing anxiously, his braid hitting his back with each bounce as his mother guided them down the single muddy street. This morning Charles’ mother had urgently whispered to “stay close” the minute the post came into view over the hill. He knew there could be danger here, the post was mostly white men- fur trappers, traders, prospectors, and the occasional soldier- who stumbled trough for a drink or a night of pleasure. He heard stories of bad encounters from fellow tribe members or…. he tried to anyway, anytime he was caught listening in , he was swiftly ushered out. He protested, he was nearly eleven! And nearly a man! Well worth his grit! Let someone try to hurt him, and if they tried to hurt his mother? The gods help them. Charles nodded at the image in his head, pleased with his imaginary self, winning in a righteous hand-to-hand with someone who would try to insult his mother. 

“Come.” She called suddenly in a high voice. He hadn’t realised he was staring off past the buildings. He looked down to his mother, who had dismounted, her knuckles white where she gripped the seat to steady herself in the ankle deep mud. Her other hand held out for Charles. He noticed the crease between her brow, her mouth set in a thin line. Setting pride aside, decided to take her hand as he jumped down. 

She pulled him roughly, and he nearly tripped.

“Momma…” She ignored him, continuing to drag Charles up the rickety rotting stairs to the general store, and stopped in front of the door. There were holes from buckshot that decorated the single piece of greying wood. Skulls of deer, elk, and bison that hung outside were riddled with them too. Charles looked on them sadly. 

He heard his mother take in a steadying breath before pushing open the door. Her grip on his hand -still smaller than hers- was agony, but he said nothing. 

It was still early in the morning, too early for a tiny town that sported two saloons and an endless flow of alcohol. They stopped in the doorway, it took several long seconds for their eyes to adjust to the dim light. There was no one in the store other than the clerk behind the counter, and Charles’ mother exhaled sharply through her nose. He hadn’t realised she had been holding her breath, her hand relaxed on his slightly. He squeezed it lightly, to remind her he was with her, and felt a light squeeze back. The clerk didn’t acknowledge their presence with any more than a dissatisfied glance, and looked back down to the days-old paper in his hand.

They had been in the store some minutes, his mother carefully selecting bags of dry goods they could afford, and setting them on the counter. Charles, distracted and entranced by a small display by the door, had let go of her hand. “Salt Water Taffy” he mouthed the words of the sign. His eyes hungrily stared at the coulurful lumps of blue, pink, and yellow- wrapped individually in semi-see-through white paper, overflowing from the glass jar. He reached up to grab it.

“I heard you, yeah, I heard you the first time gotdammit!” The door burst open and Charles leapt back with fists up, his mother suddenly yanking him towards her and folding around him protectively. A young man stormed in, backlit through the opening, the dust catching the morning sun and swirling around him. He adjusted his cuffs as he muttered angrily under his breath “I’ll give him a right smack.” As he sauntered in, the door swung catawampus on its hinges. 

“Son, mind the door!” the clerk bit out, still not looking up from his newspaper. The young man, or boy really now that Charles got a look at him, snapped his eyes up from under the oversized dark brimmed hat he wore. 

“Sorry.” He caught sight of them, and looked at his mother bashfully “Oh…. Sorry ma’am. Didn’t realise there was nobody in here.” He snatched his hat off his head and put his hands up, as if the gesture would make him less of a threat. He wore a pistol at his hip.

“Please, ma’am, I-I don’t mean no trouble for you an’ your boy here. Hos- er… my Pa’ an I was jus’ havin’ a row is all. ” He ran a hand nervously through his dull blonde hair. He gave them each a slight nod.. in greeting? Charles felt his mother stiffen, nod back ever so slightly, and return to watchfully selecting supplies. “It’s er… It… lovely mornin’ aint it?” 

Charles was somewhat puzzled, he was far more used to being outright ignored than addressed. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever even spoken to someone that wasn’t his immediate family before moving to the reservation, it wasn’t even that strange for him to go unacknowledged at the reservation for a few days. Charles pulled his long braid over his shoulder and anxiously at tugged at it. His mother nodded briefly to the boy again. 

Keeping his head down, Charles looked up at the boy with side-eyeing glances, he was still trying to make himself look smaller in the confined space of the store, less threatening. His hat between his hands, he worried the brim of the black leather and sighed. 

Charles discretely took a few side-steps back, lining himself up sideways with the boy. The candy display between them, Charles used it as a means to sneak more glances, eyes roving over the candy, and lightning quick up to his face, back down to the candy. The boy was bare-faced, a few years older than Charles- fourteen maybe- with fair features and fine clothes. Charles had never seen anyone dressed so nicely. Dark pants tucked in boots, a vest and nice wool coat. Only his pants we're patched at the knees. Never having seen another kid up close outside of the reservation before, he was excited and thrilled. What if they could become friends? What if they could play-

He had been caught staring, and the boys eyes slid over to meet his. He quirked one corner of his mouth, and Charles eyes hit the floorboards. He felt his cheeks heat. The boy adjusted his stance, fidgeted with something, moved suddenly around him, and stepped back away. Charles glanced up again, and received a wink in return. He felt his insides squirm. 

“Charles.” His mother called softly, urgently, hand reaching to him again, nervous with the proximity of the boy. He shuffled to her, as she paid and ushered him to the counter. 

The boy cleared his throat “I can help if-“ his mother shook her head forcefully and loaded up their arms with the goods. They hurried their way to the front, the boy side-stepping to hold the door open. “Ma’am.” He started a gesture of tipping his hat, but realising it was still clutched in the hand holding open the door, instead gave a sheepish smile as they passed. 

Charles threw one last look over his shoulder to see the boys head, hair like gold in the sunshine, disappear behind the swinging door. 

They were back out on the open road before long, his mother eager to be away of the post, didn't relax until it disappeared behind a hill into the trees, out of sight. 

“Momma?” Charles asked.

“Yes, sunshine?” her voice still wavered. 

“Do you think….” He paused, something was poking at him from his jacket pocket. He shifted pulling his long over coat out from under his leg. 

“I think you did bravely.” She answered, though that wasn’t what he was going to ask, leaned over to kiss the top of his head. Charles rummaged in his pocket, stopping when his fingers touched…many small rocks? He pulled one out, his hand opening to reveal a small lump of see-through white paper, pinched at the corners, bright blue showing through the center. He slammed his hand back down to the seat. His mother had not noticed. He, like her, kept his eyes straight ahead the rest of the way home, but could not hide his smile. 

\--------

Fifteen pieces, he had counted them in the dead of night by the light of a few smoldering cinders. His parents, lovingly wrapped in each others arms, slept soundly on the mat across the dwelling from him. Five blue, three green, four pink, three yellow. He had never tried salt water taffy, he had never tried any candy and his fingers itched to unwrap them all. He wanted to know if they tasted as good as they looked. 

The boy, thought Charles, and his stomach did an odd flip-flop, must have dropped them in his pocket when he stepped close to him. Maybe he had seen Charles forlorn stare at the jar, his mother summing up their purchase on her fingers, making sure they had enough to cover the essentials. He had wanted to ask her on the ride home if maybe, just maybe, people like that boy could ever be friends with them- with him. He seemed aware and polite, maybe a little shy, like Charles.

There were six kids at the reservation, not including himself, so Charles divided up the taffy to share, two each, and three for him- two blue, and a yellow. He couldn’t wait to be the hero tomorrow when he presented everyone with it, maybe he wouldn’t feel so… well…. He imagined the attention on him and smiled, falling asleep to the thought of leading the other kids, his friends, in games in the morning.

\--------

It had been several days since the last trip, and Charles begged his father to take him to the post with him. One of the older horses belonging to the tribe had passed two days ago, so Charles’ father was selected among the tribe to purchase a new one. 

His father listened to his impassioned plea as they readied the wagon, checking the struts and wheels, the horse hitching, the seat. He sighed. 

“I’m fine with it if your mother is. My love?” he conceded. 

“I am afraid. But….” His parents shared a meaningful stare. She nodded. 

His father leaned in, kissing her briefly. “We’ll be back by evening meal. I promise.” 

“You always keep your promise.” She whispered with a smile.

“Charles. Keep each other safe.” And saw them off down the road. 

A few of his friends, and he could call them that now, ran behind the wagon waving. His popularity had increased with the gift of candy. They had all tried their first piece together, hands shaking as they unwrapped the delicate paper, and stuffing the sweets into their mouths. They all squealed and giggled in delight as the taffy stuck to their teeth, cementing their mouths shut for a few second. He had led them in play that day, and the next, and the next. 

Charles turned and waved them goodbye. 

\--------

His father played games with him on the long ride into the post, quizzing him on a myriad of subjects. Fighting, bow skills, plants they passed along the way, poetry. Charles’ father had instilled a great love of learning, and on special occasions, his father would hand him an adventure dime novel he had picked up somewhere. Charles had four all together, and they were among his most prized possessions. His favorite was about a kid gunslinger from the west who had to rescue the town from a local gang. 

When the post came into view, both became quiet. His father was a large man, and exuded cool confidence as they rode into the street. A rifle set across his knees, a warning for anyone who might chance a fight. Charles knew his father had gotten into fights before, and if he was nervous now, it did not show. There looked to be several people at the post today going by the hitched horses outside of the saloons. Down the road a ways a caravan of several wagons lingered, people heading west, Charles figured. His head swiveled around looking for any sign of one familiar face.

His father pulled the wagon up around the backside of one of the saloons, across from the livery yard and stables. A sign hung reading “AUCTION TODAY” in bold red lettering. 

“Stay here.” Charles nodded as his father dismounted, walking across the street towards the livery and the line forming outside. 

For a time, he watched his fathers back in line, the sun peaking hot enough to ripple the air and make everyone in line look as though they were swaying. He sighed, and picked at the stray bits of fraying leather on his pants. So much for the chance of anything happening today. He knew what he was hoping for, as he imagined finding the boy again. Maybe he would like to catch frogs, or play stick hoops, or play fight, or-

A few doors down, two people spilled out into the back alley. A tall, thin man, with silvery blond hair and a stern voice, though Charles couldn’t make out what he was saying, his hand roughly grabbing the upper arm of a young woman in a fine dress as he seemed to be in a heated argument with her. He watched a few tense seconds before the woman wrenched her arm out of his grasp, reached up ripping off all her hair at once, and stomped it into the ground. Then she turned and ran into the woods behind the store. 

“Arthur! We’ll clean it up!...... Damn it all! Arthur!” the thin man shouted into the woods. Lingered a moment before picking up the hair, smoothing it out, and retreating back through the saloon door. 

The minute he was sure the man was gone, Charles vaulted himself off the wagon. Two steps into the trees he stopped dead, looked to the wagon, looked to his fathers back- still in line- and bolted down the hill, weaving silently through the trees. The trail was easy to follow, broken twigs and deep footprints. He followed to a creek he heard trickling before he saw, and stayed low and in shadows when it opened into a clearing. His heart picked up speed as he recognised the golden hair glowing in the sun. 

The boy…. Arthur had the tall man called him? Sat on his heels with his knees in the water, washing red …..Blood? Off of his bare arms and sobbing openly. The dress he was wearing pooling around him in the water, stained as well. Charles caught a bitter smell, definitely blood then, ribboning through the clear water. Death was not foreign, he had seen quite a bit of it, especially in his younger days, before they had settled on the reservation with his mothers people, and still after. 

Another sob and Charles suddenly felt like he was intruding, viewing something he should not. He caught himself, contemplated. When he was this sad, hadn’t he wished for a friend to come to him? To tell him he wasn’t alone? To be there? Maybe…. Maybe Charles could be the friend he needed right now…

He stood, intentionally breaking twigs and stomping his way to the edge of the creek, which wove lazily through the trees. 

“Hosea, I told you to leave me alone right now.” He didn’t turn around.

Charles cleared his throat. The boy lifted his arm to rub at his eyes angrily as he turned towards Charles.

“Can you please just leave I don’ wanna talk ‘bout this with you righ-“ his voice cracked as his arm dropped. Charles stood there, and blinked up at him, his heart loud in his ears. The sun caught in the tears stuck to his clumped together eye lashes, flushed tear wet cheeks, nose dripping, and eyes so blue Charles felt a physical pain in his chest. 

Alarmed, more by his unfamiliarity with the feeling than anything else, Charles turned to run.

“No-” his voice cracked again, Charles stopped, turned, his bottom lip wobbled “you don’ haveta go.” he rubbed hastily at his eyes and face once more. Charles faced him fully drawing up to his full height. Admittedly, he was still growing, and quite small, but he tried to emulate the tall confidence his father always seemed to posses. He stepped forward reaching into his sleeve where he always kept a handkerchief and offered it to the boy bravely. It was his favorite, one he and his mother had painted together and beaded the edges in floral patterns. The boy stared at Charles. 

“Here. It’s clean” Charles assured motioning the handkerchief to him again, and he reached out and took it. 

“Thanks little par’ner.” He said quietly with a hiccup and began to wipe his face with it. “I’m Arthur.”

“Charles.” 

“Yeah, I ‘member. You was in the shop the other day with your ma’. Sorry again ‘bout that. Dutch is always tellin’ me t’stop bein’ an ‘impudent imposing ass’” he glanced to Charles with a forced smirk and made to hand the handkerchief back.

“You keep it.” Charles felt his voice small, but he raised his chin anyway, hoping he came across confident. They sat in silence a few long minutes.

“Surprised you haven’t asked me why….” he gestured to himself, his dress. Charles shrugged and gestured to his own attire. Long tan leather tunic that went past his knees, beaded at the ends with elaborate patterns. Arthur chuckled “Yeah, but this here’s a dress proper.” He motioned to his bare arms and Charles felt his face heat again and looked away. 

“Not my business.” Charles finally said and felt grown up. His father especially always reminded him not to get involved in situations that did not concern him. Even though he did itch to know, he also thought if the boy had done something bad, killed someone….. maybe he really didn’t want to know.

“Hey, Charles” his head snapped to Arthurs face. His name sounded strange, foreign, especially in such a heavy accent. His chest tightened again. “See… a job just went south and…would you mind” he rambled, running his hand through his hair “would you mind helpin’ me get clean clothes?”

Charles paused and shook his head. 

“You know how t’read?” Charles nodded. “Oh you’re lucky, see I’m just learning my letters an such. Anyhow, you know the Fairfield Saloon?” 

“The red one with the Cigar sign on it.” Charles pointed in the direction of the post.

“Yes! There’s a staircase up the back to the rooms… er- 2B I think is my room? Its got a handprint stain on the door, in any case. I just need a clean shirt and my satchel. I got m’ pants on under, see?” he lifted the skirt to show pants and boots. “I don’ really want t’be seen like… and well.” He shrugged and looked down, the dress was thoroughly stained, what were once white frills were beginning to brown in the sun. “I don’ want to run into…” his eyes seemed to water again.

Charles turned and bounded up the hill without waiting for him to finish, setting out to get the task done. His stomach felt weighted, his breath short as he imagined returning with the requested items. Arthurs face lighting up with a smile just for him. 

It only took a few minutes to reach the saloon, Charles saw the decrepit staircase and swiftly lit up the steps. He listened before opening the paint peeled door, sure no one was in the hall. He had never been in a building like this before, and hoped to never be again. The smell of rot and mildew hung heavy in the dim light, and Charles grimaced. Every door had a faded number painted on, and two doors down, Charles found 2B, but no handprint. He glanced at the other doors to find the handprint on 2D. 

He pushed open the door to 2D, hesitantly at first, seeing the blue wool coat Arthur had worn the other day slung over a corner chair. He slipped inside. The satchel lay on the threadbare bed, his bedclothes folded beside the pillow. His memory of Inns and rooms being supplied mostly from the pages of his stories, Charles looked to a large aged cabinet and opened it. A few clothes in neat piles were stacked on the shelves. He pulled the first shirt in the pile, a fine cream colour. His hands hovered back up to the shelf to touch the soft cloth of a vest , fingers tracing the stripes. He picked it up off the shelf, selecting it ‘cause it was blue. He figured though it wasn’t asked for, it might be appreciated. He slung it over his arm with the shirt and lastly grabbed the satchel. He took one last look about the room before dashing out, down the stairs, and into the woods. 

When he returned to the creekside, the dress was slapped over a large rock to dry, Arthur stood, still rubbing at his eyes looking as though he had been crying again. He gave Charles that same sheepish smile from before as he was handed his clothes. 

“Complete with vest.” Arthur noted with a quirk of his mouth, and Charles looked away, face hot enough he was sure he could boil water. He let Arthur dress in silence, watching the forest for movement. He thought again about asking Arthur to play, thinking up games and jokes that might entertain him. In his mind, they were quickly becoming the best of friends. 

His mind snapped back as he felt Arthur take his hand. He looked up, momentarily stunned. He was all buttoned back up looking as neat as ever, as though he had not just been crying his eyes out covered in blood. 

“Thank you for the candy.” Charles blurted staring up at him. Arthur gave a shrug and small laugh.

“Little kids like candy, an’ I saw you starin’ at it.” He started up the hill. “Well my small friend, I’m sure your Ma’s lookin’ for you by now, lets get you back.” Charles’ heart sank. First with the realisation that if his absence had been noticed, he was sure to receive a good swat. Second was the understanding that, even though Arthur had called him ‘friend’ he saw him as nothing more than some little kid. Even so, Charles was extremely unwilling to let go of the hand that now pulled him up the hill gently. 

Before they cleared the tree line, Charles could hear his father calling for him frantically. Arthurs other hand moved to wave above his head as they broke through into the back alley. 

“Sir!” Waving again and Charles’ father came running over desperate. 

“Charles, what the hell? I told you not to leave the wagon!” his father dropped to his knees, gripping Charles by both shoulders, checking him over. 

“I’m fine-“ he dropped Arthurs hand and moved to stand next to his father.

“Where did you go, I told you….” 

“Sir.” Arthur interpreted, “I’s my fault really, see I…. Found myself in a spot of trouble and your son here was kind enough to come help me gather my things.” Charles’ father stood then, a full head above Arthur, staring down at him. Arthur, met the gaze and held his hand out between them. “You got a good kid sir, I’m sorry to have caused trouble for ‘im.” His father eyed him another second before shaking the hand. 

“Thank you.” 

Arthur nodded. 

“Arthur! Son, there you are!” A scratchy voice called from behind Arthur and he shifted, his shoulders stiffened. Charles peered around him to see a dark haired man approaching.

“Ah, an there’s my folks- ‘scuse me Sir, little pard’ner.” He did the same strange hat tipping motion, again not wearing a hat, and turned heel. 

“Come Charles, we have business, and need to get home to your mother.” His fathers hand settling on his shoulder and eyes, untrusting, following Arthurs back as he greeted the dark haired man.

“Are you mad?”

“I am ….. Extraordinarily upset.” Charles swallowed. This was worse, worse than getting a smack, worse than all the times he was told he should know better, worse than the time he was made to apologise to everyone in the reservation every morning for a week. This outing was important and his father couldn’t trust him any more, his father could not rely on him. He really was just a little boy, he really wasn’t becoming a man…… 

“I am sorry father.” 

“Do you understand why I’m upset?” Charles shrugged. “Charles.” 

“I didn’t listen.” He sighed.

“I didn’t know where you were. This place is dangerous. Do you understand that? Do you?” his fathers eyes bored into his. 

“I…….. I don’t know.” He looked to the ground “I just….. I wanted to be friends, I’m sorry father.” He toed the dirt, a little ashamed of confessing that to his father. People, especially people like Arthur, were not to be trusted. His father hummed at this, disapproving, but said no more. His father led him back over to the livery yard to complete the task they had set out to do, this time without having to worry about Charles’ whereabouts. 

\--------

The ride home was uncomfortably silent, the only noise came from the newly purchased chickens and extremely young colt tied to the back of the wagon who whinnied and fought the lead rope. Glancing back a few times, Charles noticed something, fluttering slightly and pure white tucked under one of the crates that held the chicken feed. A piece of paper? 

They arrived back at the reservation just before dark, and Charles mother greeted them anxiously, they were much later than promised. Evening meal had ended an hour ago. His father pulled her off to the side, no doubt to discuss what had happened, and an older member arrived to untie the colt.

Charles curiously stepped into the wagon, with the excuse that he could help unload the chickens and feed, and reached for the paper. As he pulled it, something fell to the floor of the wagon with a smack. He looked down to see a wrapped chocolate bar. He looked back to the smudgy paper in his hand. It was difficult to make out the lettering in the fading light. He finally realised that several attempts had been made and then crossed out of the words “thank you” and finally what had been settled on was “Thanks -Arthur”. Charles bent to pick up the chocolate bar. The plain red wrapper had been decorated with little graphite drawn flowers. The same flowers, Charles realised with a smile and a tightness in his chest, that he and his mother had beaded onto the handkerchief.

**Author's Note:**

> This was just a mundane idea that floated through. I have been replaying RDR2 for the first time since its release and really wanted to experience all the side quests.  
> One thing that really struck me was Arthur (or im reading into it) strongly hinting he had been in dresses, or made to wear a dress by Hosea for cons in the past? 
> 
> Anyway this is based off of that thought, what I remember of being a little kid with a crush of a similar age gap and getting in trouble for going on a hike with her, and my want for more Charles persepctive and backstory. 
> 
> Arthur here is maybe just 14, and has not been with Dutch and Hosea for very long. Though i didnt really flesh out the scenario, i imagine he accidently killed the target & is far more upset with that than being in the dress at all. 
> 
> -James


End file.
